


isn't it fun to play pretend

by merricats_sugarbowl



Series: clexa cat burglars [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thieves, Birthday Presents, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 16:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16559105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merricats_sugarbowl/pseuds/merricats_sugarbowl
Summary: If you can be good at birthdays, Clarke Griffin is good at birthdays.At least, she normally is.For Lexa's birthday, she and Clarke return to the house where they met to steal from Dante Wallace once again.





	isn't it fun to play pretend

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, it's a sequel to my Clexa cat burglar fic, because I am behind on NaNoWriMo and procrastinating even more.
> 
> Title taken from Betty Who's High Society.

Clarke has always been good at buying gifts. She’s a planner, so she’s never had to deal with the last minute gift buying stress that so many of her friends seem to succumb to during the holidays. She makes lists, colour-coded indexes of what her friends and family would like, and she always manages to find the perfect gift, no matter how off the wall. If you can be good at birthdays, Clarke Griffin is _good_ at birthdays.

At least, she normally is.

Lexa’s birthday is rapidly approaching, the first special occasion they’ve shared since they got together, and Clarke wants more than anything to get her girlfriend the perfect gift to show her how much she cares about her. But what do you get for the girl who can steal whatever she wants? Bath bombs won’t cut it. Neither will liquer chocolates or fancy champagne. Everything that Clarke comes up with falls short of the expectations she’s set for herself, and even though she knows that Lexa will love anything that Clarke gets her, she can’t help but feel frustrated at her failure to think of something.

It’s the perfectionist in her, the same streak that drew her towards lock-picking. To pick a lock properly, you need to do everything just right. It’s a philosophy that Clarke extends to the rest of her life, as well, and though it can come in handy at times, it sometimes means that she stands in her own way. She should just give up, stop trying to think of the ideal gift and buy something so that she’ll at least have a gift to hand over when the day comes. But she can’t bring herself to get anything that isn’t perfect, and when Lexa’s birthday finally rolls around, Clarke shows up at her apartment empty-handed and furious with herself.

Lexa doesn’t seem to notice. She opens the door at Clarke’s knock and tugs her inside, kissing her soundly on the lips before Clarke can utter a word of hello. Her lips are soft like always, tasting faintly of mint and something spicy that Clarke can’t quite figure out. She’s wearing jeans and a soft blue sweater, and there’s a white frilly apron tied around her waist. Her hair is bundled up in a messy bun, a smudge of sauce stains her left cheek, and the hand that’s not bunched up in Clarke’s shirt is holding onto a wooden spoon. Clarke raises her eyebrows, arms coming around to rest on the small of Lexa’s back.

“It’s _your_ birthday,” she points out. “Shouldn’t I be making dinner for you?”

“In a perfect world, yes,” Lexa agrees, grinning, “but the last time you cooked for us, we were both throwing up all night afterwards, and that’s not really how I want to spend tonight with you, Clarke.”

Another kiss, a suggestive raise of her brow, and then Lexa’s stepping out of Clarke’s embrace and heading for the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand. Clarke sets her bag down by the door and shrugs off her jacket, hanging it on the antique coatstand. She loves Lexa’s apartment. It’s smaller than Clarke’s, but everything in it has been chosen with love and care, and it shows. The walls are painted in shades of soft blue and green. The floors are hardwood, something that Lexa is immensely proud of, and covered here and there by woven rugs. An oversized L-shaped couch dominates most of the living room, scattered with cushions and throw pillows embroidered with surprisingly offensive phrases. Clarke’s favourite is a cream coloured pillow that loudly proclaims “Bitches get shit done.”

A television hangs on the wall across from the couch, and the other walls are hung with prints and photographs of Lexa and her friends. The rest of the living room is taken up by Lexa’s tiny dining table, a round slab of driftwood with a glass vase set in the middle. The flowers that occupy it this week are yellow tulips. Clarke leans in to smell them, eyes closed. She teases Lexa for this table all of the time, calls it hippie chic, but secretly, she loves the rough-hewn tabletop and the chairs that surround it, converted barrels with cushions sewn into them. It’s like Lexa herself, charming, unusual, just a little bit out of the ordinary.

Leading off of the living room is the kitchen, tiny and cluttered with all kinds of fancy appliances that Clarke can hardly identify, let alone use. Lexa loves to cook, a love that Clarke will admit to not understanding. She’s always seen cooking as a lamentable necessity — if she could subsist entirely off of wine and microwavable popcorn, she would. She doesn’t understand Lexa’s passion for being in the kitchen, but she’s come to appreciate it over the last few months. Especially at times like this, when she can hear Lexa humming softly while she stirs, and delicious smells are wafting from the open doorway. Clarke kicks off her shoes and pads into the kitchen, sliding her arms around Lexa’s waist while she stands at the stove.

“What are you cooking, birthday girl?”

Clarke punctuates her words with a kiss on Lexa’s neck, drawing an appreciative shiver from the other girl.

“Coconut curry,” Lexa says. She turns, holding out the spoon for Clarke to taste.

“It’s good. Almost ready?”

“Almost. Go hang out in the living room, you’re distracting me.”

Words that could be harsh, but they’re accompanied by a smile and another kiss, so Clarke decides to let it slide. She heads back out into the living room and settles into her favourite spot on the couch. There’s a novel on the coffee table that she left here the last time she stayed over. She thumbs through it while Lexa finishes cooking, wondering absently what she’s going to do about Lexa’s gift.

She can hear Lexa dishing out the curry in the kitchen when her phone buzzes. A frown tugs at Clarke’s lips and she reaches for it to turn it off — she and Lexa have a rule about phones at dinner — but then she notices the message on the screen.

**Jasper**

_The coyote flies at noon._

She blinks at the text, baffled, and hits the dial button. It only takes two rings before Jasper picks up, sounding breathless and excited. Clarke doesn’t have time to humour him like she usually does. She can hear Lexa rooting through the cutlery drawer in the kitchen, and by Clarke’s guess, dinner is about to start in less than a minute.

“Jasper, what the hell does ‘the coyote flies at noon’ mean?”

“I thought we could start using code phrases!” he replies. She can practically see the goofy grin on his face. “You know, for when we have a new client or assignment. The coyote flies at noon, it’s got a ring to it, right?”

Clarke rolls her eyes and thinks better of telling him that coyotes can’t fly. “Sure, Jasper. So we’ve got a client?”

“A big one! Sounds like it’s gonna be a fun job. You want me to tell you about it now?”

Clarke glances towards the kitchen. She should say no, hang up the phone and go help Lexa bring the food out, but her curiosity gets the better of her. “Go for it.”

She’s glad that she lets her curiosity win out, because once Jasper’s revealed everything to her, she realises that she’s been wasting her time trying to think of the perfect present for Lexa. It’s been staring her right in the face all along. What Lexa loves most in the world is going out on assignment, and now, Clarke has one to give to her. It’s perfect. She thanks Jasper, arranges a meeting with him and Monty for the next morning, and then turns her phone off and tucks it into her pocket for the night. She bounds into the kitchen, where Lexa is struggling to balance plates, wine glasses and cutlery on a tray. Clarke takes it from her hands and sets it down on the counter before cupping Lexa’s face in her hands and kissing her.

When Clarke pulls back, Lexa blinks at her, confused.

“Not that I didn’t enjoy that, but why do you suddenly seem so excited?”

“Because I finally figured out what to give you for your birthday,” Clarke tells her, retrieving the tray and starting to head back to the living room. “Come on. Let’s eat.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You got me Jasper and Monty?”

It’s the day after Lexa’s birthday and she’s in the downtown office building that Clarke’s group use as their headquarters. It’s a fairly average building, occupied mostly by low-tier accountants, insurance adjustors and therapists with dubious licences. It’s nothing like the sleek, modern offices of Lexa’s firm, known to the public as a law firm. The irony of that has always made Lexa smirk a little. Clarke’s set-up doesn’t have a cover-up. The sign on their door simply reads Griffin, Blake and Co., named for Clarke and Octavia, but with no indications as to what Griffin, Blake and Co. might actually be. Lexa’s been here once or twice before, when Clarke wanted her help on an assignment, but she doesn’t know what she’s doing here now.

Clarke had promised that she was taking her to her birthday present, but all that Lexa can see in the room is Jasper and Monty, Clarke’s friends. They seem just as confused as Lexa is by the whole situation. Monty is sitting cross-legged on his swivel chair, head tilted to the side like a puppy, and Jasper’s eyebrows are furrowed so close together that it’s difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. Whatever Clarke’s plan is, they’re clearly not in on it.

Clarke shakes her head at Lexa, grinning. “I got you a _job_ ,” she says, sounding proud of herself, and a thrill runs down Lexa’s spine.

Of course. Clarke knows Lexa better than anyone. Of course she would know that the perfect birthday gift for her wouldn’t be some kind of trinket. Lexa’s not the type to dream about jewelery or perfume. No, the chance to go out on assignment, to get her adrenaline pumping and her heart racing, to challenge herself to get in and out of somewhere without being seen. The chance to do it with Clarke, who too often has to act as Lexa’s opponent out in the city. That’s the kind of gift that Lexa wants.

She returns Clarke’s grin with one of her own and then pulls her in for a kiss. “You beautiful genius,” she says, letting out a little laugh. Then, mindful of Jasper and Monty, she straightens her shoulders and addresses the room at large. “So, what’s the mark? Museum? Art gallery? Private residence?”

“Private residence,” Jasper says, seeming more at ease now that he knows why Clarke’s brought Lexa here. “It’s a little different than what you’re used to, but the client is offering a _lot_ of money.” He hands Clarke a folder with a bright yellow Post-It on top. Clarke whistles and shows Lexa the Post-It.

Jasper’s right. It’s a lot of money.

“You said it was different than what we’re used to,” Lexa says. “How?”

Monty and Jasper exchange a look. “It’s riskier,” Monty says after a moment. “There’s a security system on this place that we can’t breach. And Lincoln can’t, either,” he adds, noticing Lexa open her mouth to interrupt. “We already contacted him to ask for his help, but it’s state of the art. There’s no way to crack it, at least not for long enough for you guys to get in and out of there. So… we’re going to need you to go in when the house is occupied.”

“There’s going to be a party there next week,” Jasper says. “A political fundraiser. There’ll be hundreds of people there, and you guys are going to be two of them. It’s the perfect cover. No one will question why you’re there.”

“Are you _insane_?” Lexa asks, incredulous. Her excitement vanishes instantly, replaced with disbelief at Jasper and Monty’s recklessness. Clarke and her friends have lost their minds. She and Clarke are thieves, not actors. Their skills lie in the picking of locks, in knowing which window is the one that will grant them access to a locked house, in finding the room where the most valuable items are kept. They excel when no one is around, not when houses are teeming with partygoers. There’s no way that they can pull it off.

“Just hear us out,” Monty says, pleading. “The thing you need to steal? Tiny. It’s a memory card. And we can tell you exactly where to find it in the house, too. It’ll be one of the easiest jobs you’ve ever done, apart from the fact that there’ll be people there while you’re doing it.”

“And you get to go to a party,” Jasper adds. “A big, fancy, political fundraiser party, with free champagne and caviar and pretty girls wearing low-cut dresses.”

“Why don’t _you_ go, Jasper?” Lexa says wryly. Her sarcasm hides the fact that despite her better instincts, she’s actually thinking about it.

There’s nothing Lexa likes more than a challenge. She’s known for being one of the best thieves in the city — there’s a reason that people at the firm call her the Commander, after all. But lately her assignments have gotten boring. Predictable. She’s just been going through the motions, and she has to admit that doing something out of the box sounds exciting. She looks at Clarke, who’s watching her expectantly, a half-smile hovering about her lips. Clarke knows her well enough to know that her resolve is wavering. Lexa will say yes, and Clarke knows it.

“Do you like your birthday present?” she asks, eager.

“It’s something.” Lexa looks back at Jasper and Monty, narrowing her eyes. “Alright. Tell me more.”

Jasper gives a cheer. Monty edges forward on his swivel chair, spreading his hands wide. “Okay, so,” he says, a sparkle entering his dark eyes now that it looks like Lexa’s on board. “The mark is Dante Wallace—”

“Wait,” Lexa interrupts, eyes widening. “Dante Wallace?”

It was at Dante Wallace’s house where she ran into Clarke for the first time. It seems like a lifetime ago when Lexa shimmied into Wallace’s upstairs window, the only thing on her mind the one of a kind Salvador Dali painting in the study. Then she’d run into a beautiful blonde girl in the entrance hall when she was making her getaway, and the rest is history. She meets Clarke’s eyes. She can tell from the way that Clarke is smiling at her that she’s remembering that night, as well.

“It’s meant to be,” Clarke tells her. “We _have_ to do this, Lexa.”

“Wait. Lincoln cracked Wallace’s security system,” Lexa says, confused. “He said that it was easy, one of those over-the-top systems that are more for show than actual protection. He should be able to do that again easily.”

“Wallace has updated his security since you two were last there,” Monty says.

Jasper shrugs his shoulders, a what are you gonna do gesture. “It probably seemed like a good idea after he lost an African fertility statue and a priceless painting in one night, y’know?”

It’s a fair point, Lexa has to admit.

“Alright,” she says. “So we’re going to a party.”

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke’s outdone herself this time. Giving Lexa the gift of an assignment would have been perfect enough, but the fact that the mark is Dante Wallace, the very man who brought them together in the first place, makes it even better. She couldn’t have planned it if she tried. And it’s something different, too — not the typical breaking and entering job. They have to do more preparation work, make more plans. There are costumes and fake backstories involved. Clarke feels like she’s playing a part in a play, and she’s loving every moment of it.

They decide to bring Octavia in on the plan as well. It’s Lexa’s idea. She thinks that having back-up in the house is a good plan, just in case someone should stumble across them when they’re searching for the memory card. Clarke agrees; stealing something from an occupied house is new for both of them, and she wants them to have every advantage in getting out of there unnoticed. Octavia agrees immediately, but only on the condition that she gets a date, too.

“This is basically a date, and I refuse to be a third wheel,” she informs Clarke and Lexa when they tell her about their plans. Then her gaze lands on Lexa, mischievous. “What about the beefy surveillance guy from your firm? Lincoln, right? Get him to come and I’m on board.”

It doesn’t take much to convince Lincoln to accompany pretty Octavia to the party, even though he normally stays on the sidelines. When Clarke asks Lexa about his willingness to join them at Wallace’s mansion, Lexa just shrugs and says that Lincoln’s been harbouring a crush on Octavia for the last few months. It’s news to Clarke. Lincoln hides his feelings well. Still, she’s grateful for them, because having both Lincoln and Octavia nearby for backup is _very_ reassuring.

The night before the party, the whole team gathers in Clarke’s apartment to go over the plan one last time — Clarke, Lexa, Jasper, Monty, Lincoln and Octavia. They order pizzas from the delivery place down the street and eat them while they pore over blueprints and floor plans of the Wallace home. It’s like the world’s most twisted slumber party.

“The party is going to be on the ground floor,” Monty says, tapping a spot on one of the blueprints. “Upper floors are technically off-limits, but that’s where the memory card is, so you’re going to have to get upstairs somehow. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Everyone’s going to be too busy being charmed by Wallace to notice anyone slipping away from the party.”

“It’s in Wallace’s bedroom,” Jasper adds, pointing to a room circled in red ink. “In the nightstand.”

“How do you know it’ll be there?” Lincoln asks, sounding vaguely suspicious.

“The client told us,” Monty says. At Lincoln’s disbelieving look, he sighs. “The client is Wallace’s son, Cage. He knows exactly where it is because he’s seen it.”

“If the client is Wallace’s son, then why does he need to hire us in the first place?” Octavia asks. It seems as though some of Lincoln’s suspicion is rubbing off on her. Clarke suspects that that has something to do with how close they’re sitting together on the couch. Octavia must have absorbed the suspicion, she decides. Osmosis.

She does have a point, though, and Clarke looks at Jasper and Monty expectantly for an answer.

“Plausible deniability,” Jasper says. “Cage didn’t tell us _exactly_ what’s on the memory card, but he implied that there’s some pretty damning stuff on there that could ruin his father’s campaign. He’s never made a secret of opposing his father’s policies, and Wallace knows that he knows about the card, so he’d be the first suspect if it went missing.”

“But,” Monty chimes in, “he’s away at grad school right now on the other side of the country. So when Wallace checks the nightstand for the card, which, according to Cage, he does every night before bed, he can’t blame Cage when it’s not there.”

“Plausible deniability,” Lexa repeats, grinning. “Okay. I like it.”

“So you’re going to pose as party guests,” Jasper says. “Possible investors or supporters of Wallace’s new campaign for re-election. You’ll need to dress the part.”

As if on cue, Monty gets to his feet and pulls a handful of shopping bags from behind the couch. The pastel-coloured ones go to the girls and Monty presses the larger, black and silver striped one into Lincoln’s arms. Lincoln peers inside and then back up at Jasper and Monty, dismayed.

“A suit?”

Looking at Lincoln now, with his torn jeans and hole-ridden t-shirt, Clarke can understand his distress. She peeks inside of her own bag and finds a fairly inoffensive party dress; navy blue, with silver diamante detailing. Beneath the fabric there’s a pair of silver heeled shoes, and a matching clutch bag. She takes a moment to wonder if Jasper or Monty picked it out for her, and then decides that she doesn’t want to know.

“You have to blend in,” Jasper is telling Lincoln, who’s holding up a charcoal grey tie with a look of distaste. “Wallace has to believe that you were invited or this isn’t going to work.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Octavia says, nudging Lincoln’s side with her elbow. Though he still looks mutinous, he huffs out a grudging sigh of assent.

“Once you’re in there, we’ll be in constant contact,” Monty says, holding up one of the headsets that they use on their assignments. It’s one of the more discreet models, built to fit directly into the ear. Lexa wrinkles her nose at it.

“I hate those things. What’s wrong with using our phones?”

“These are more discreet. You don’t have to worry about slipping away from the crowd to use them, and Monty and Jasper can get in touch quicker if something goes wrong,” Clarke says before Monty can reply. She and Lexa have discussed Clarke’s team’s equipment more than once in the past. Lexa thinks it’s tacky, too spy-movie. She’s always refused one in the past when they’ve collaborated, but this time is different. The split second it takes to make a phone call could be the second that they get caught. After a moment of consideration, Lexa nods.

“You get in, get the memory card, and get out of there as quickly as you can,” Jasper says. “And the most important thing to remember is not to draw attention to yourselves. Once Wallace figures out that the card is missing, he’s going to start thinking about who was in the house that night. He’ll check the guest list.”

“Are our names going to be _on_ that guest list?” Lincoln says, his suspicion returning.

Again, Monty reaches behind the couch, coming up this time with two envelopes and a grin that somehow manages to be sheepish and proud at the same time. He hands one of the envelopes to Clarke and the other to Lincoln. Clarke opens hers first, slitting the top in one quick fluid motion and pulling out an invitation card made of high-quality cream paper, edged with gold. Written on the front in curlicue script is a message inviting two guests to a night of refreshments at Dante Wallace’s mansion. Clarke’s eyes rest on the names and then flit back up to Monty’s.

“Olivia Maybury and Imogen Ressler?”

“Co-owners of a prominent local art gallery,” Monty says. “Just opened. They’ve just moved to the area, so you don’t have to worry about anyone realising that you’re not them.”

Lincoln slits open his own envelope and reads the names from the card. “Axel and Danica Kingston.”

“Newlyweds,” Jasper says. “And owners of a large multinational corporation, based across the pond. They’re interested in investing in Wallace’s campaign, but they’ve never met, since the Kingstons’ base of operations is in London.”

Lincoln narrows his eyes. “I am _not_ doing a British accent,” he warns.

“We’ll see,” Octavia says gleefully, snatching the card out of his hand.

 

* * *

 

 

Lexa has to hand it to Jasper and Monty — for two reclusive nerds who basically live in jeans and t-shirts, they _really_ know what flatters a woman’s body. For Lexa’s undercover dress, they’ve selected a floor-length gown of emerald green velvet, with a slit up the side and a plunging neckline. The straps that cross her shoulders are spaghetti-thin, the fabric of the dress clinging to her curves like a second skin. She wears no jewellery, apart from a matching green velvet ribbon tied around her neck. Her shoes are yellow-gold strappy high heels, not ideal for making a quick getaway, but the perfect complement to her outfit.

One thing is certain, she definitely doesn’t look like a cat burglar anymore.

Suitably dressed for the evening, Lexa studies the floor-plans of Wallace’s mansion one more time while she waits for Clarke and the others to arrive. She’s already thought of two possible escape routes — her usual method of leaving through the window isn’t exactly feasible in a floor-length gown and heels — and she’s halfway to formulating a third when there’s a knock on the door and the sound of Lincoln’s familiar voice enquiring if anyone is home.

Lexa opens the door to reveal a sullen Lincoln, looking miserable yet incredibly dapper in a dark suit. Beside him is Octavia, stunning in a charcoal grey dress that matches Lincoln’s tie, and then beside her is Clarke, and Lexa’s breath actually hitches in her throat at the sight of her, because she has never seen Clarke look more beautiful.

Her dress is navy blue, short in the front and long in the back. The bodice is a t-shirt style, made of mesh to reveal a simple spaghetti strap slip underneath. Silver diamantes pattern the mesh overlay, giving off the impression of constellations against the night sky. Clarke’s jewellery and shoes are silver, her make-up cool-toned and ehtereal. Her hair is drawn up on top of her head, a cascade of curls escaping from a silvery hair tie. Tiny diamante pins are woven here and there throughout, a sea of stars amid blonde curls.

Lexa gapes at her, wordless.

“Is it too much?” Clarke asks, touching one of the pins in her hair self-consciously. “I thought the hair was maybe too much, but Octavia said—”

“Whatever Octavia said, she was right,” Lexa interrupts, wrapping her fingers around Clarke’s wrist and pulling her in for a kiss. They’ll both have to reapply their lipstick, but Lexa doesn’t care.

“I told you,” Octavia crows as she and Lincoln duck around them. They stretch out on Lexa’s couch, watching Clarke and Lexa kiss like people watching a vaguely interesting documentary on the Discovery Channel.

 _Discovery Channel presents: The Mating Rituals of Millenial Lesbians_ , Lexa thinks to herself. She carefully disentangles herself from Clarke’s embrace, reaches out to swipe a smear of burgundy lipstick from Clarke’s mouth, and then turns around to address the others. Behind her, Clarke reapplies her pale pink lipstain.

“So there’s two cars downstairs?”

“One for us, one for you,” Octavia confirms, rifling around in her clutch bag. She produces something from the bag and holds it up for Lexa to see. “Here’s your headsets. There’s no point _glaring_ , Lexa. It makes sense for all of us to be able to stay in touch with each other as well as Jasper and Monty.”

Lexa rolls her eyes and thinks about making one final bid to ditch the headsets, but decides not to argue. Octavia’s not one to back down from a fight, and they don’t have time to get into a spirited debate.

“We’re going to go in first,” Clarke says, touching her hand briefly to the small of Lexa’s back. “Lincoln and Octavia will wait and come in a few minutes after us so that no one thinks we’re together, since it’s pretty unlikely that Olivia Maybury and Imogen Ressler would know the Kingstons.”

“We’ll have to mingle for a while,” Lexa says thoughtfully. “It’ll look suspicious if we arrive and then immediately disappear.”

“That’s where we come in,” Lincoln says. “After you guys have been there for a while, we’re going to show up and divert attention so you can slip away unnoticed.”

“The Kingstons are _always_ the life of the party,” Octavia adds in a perfect imitation of an English accent.At the surprised look on Lexa’s face, she grins widely and slips back into her normal accent. “Good, right? I’ve been practicing all week. This one, though,” she says, shoving Lincoln playfully, “is absolutely useless. We’re going to have to pretend that Axel is mute.”

While Lincoln protests, Lexa turns the headset that Octavia handed her over in her hands and then fits it into her ear. It’s tiny, more of an earpiece than anything else, and invisible once it’s set snugly into Lexa’s ear.

“One thing,” she says, cutting Lincoln off in the middle of showcasing his accent. An unwelcome thought has just crossed her mind. “These people we’re impersonating — how can we be sure they’re not going to show up tonight and blow our cover?”

A burst of static sounds in Lexa’s ear and she starts, gasping out a swear and reaching out to grab Clarke’s arm.

“Come on, Lexa,” Jasper’s voice wheedles out of the earpiece. “Give us more credit than that. Last week, Olivia and Imogen got V.I.P. Tickets to an art show in New York City, and the Kingstons’ plane was delayed due to technical difficulties.” Lexa can almost hear the self-satisfied smirk in his voice. “At least, that’s what _they_ think. By the time they land on American soil, Wallace’s party will be over and you guys will be long gone.”

“I hate these things,” Lexa informs Clarke, gesturing furiously to the earpiece. In her ear, Jasper chuckles.

They take a moment for last-minute outfit checks, despite Lincoln’s grumbling as Octavia adjusts his tie. This is a black-tie event; they have to make sure they look the part, or the ruse isn’t going to work. Then they head downstairs to the cars and set off for Wallace’s mansion.

 

* * *

 

 

As their car winds through the maze of vehicles parked near Wallace’s estate, Clarke marvels at how different the mansion looks from the last time she was here. It’s hardly surprising; the house was dark and empty when she last visited, and now every window is lit up, the front doors thrown open to allow the guests to stream inside. Lexa’s driving, so Clarke has a perfect opportunity to get the lay of the land. It’s even busier than she expected. If they have to make a quick and sudden getaway, they might have some difficulty.

A man in a dark suit approaches their car as they get closer to the house, holding up a hand and signalling for them to stop. When Lexa winds down her window, he politely asks to see their invitation. Clarke’s heartbeat quickens as he examines the ivory card, half-expecting him to declare them imposters, but he just smiles and hands it back to Lexa before offering to park their car. A valet. They should have expected that, but they didn’t. Again, Clarke thinks about how difficult a quick getaway might be.

Still, it’s too late to turn back now. They get out of the car and start the trek up Wallace’s driveway, Lexa’s arm tucked securely in Clarke’s. They’re quiet, at first, only speaking after they’ve passed the fountain in the centre of the drive.

“So,” Lexa says. “Are you Olivia, or Imogen?”

“You’re definitely more of an Olivia,” Clarke says, smiling in spite of her nerves. “I’ll take Imogen.”

“Are you nervous?”

“A little,” Clarke admits. There’s no use lying to Lexa. They know each other so well at this point that it’s a waste of time. In response, Lexa reaches down to twine their fingers together and squeezes Clarke’s hand hard, a gesture of comfort and solidarity.

“Me too,” she says. Then she grins right as the light from the open doorway hits her, casting shadows over her face and making her look wolfish. “But it’s kind of exciting, too, right?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Clarke nods. There’s no chance to say anything else, because they’re being swept inside by another dark-suited man, who asks their names and requests that they present their invitation. Lexa’s voice doesn’t falter when she introduces herself as Olivia Maybury, and when Clarke states her own name as Imogen Ressler, she says it with so much authority that she almost believes it herself. They’re admitted into the house by the suited man, their invitation snipped in two and their names stricken from the list. Then they’re directed towards the main dining room, a room where neither Clarke or Lexa ventured the last time they were here.

In the bright light of the party, the house looks different. Clarke has an innate aversion to houses like Wallace’s, tacky, overdone mini mansions that show a love for money rather than a love for anything else, but even she has to admit that it’s been tastefully decorated for the evening. Fairy lights wink from each room, understated floral arrangements adorn every surface, and the posters advertising Wallace’s campaign are minimal.

Waiters in white shirts expertly traverse the house, balancing trays of champagne flutes and canapés with ease. Clarke presses closer to Lexa to avoid one of them, though she accepts the flute of champagne he holds out to her. Lexa raises an eyebrow, smirking.

“Drinking on the job, Ms. Ressler?” she enquires under her breath.

“No drinking!” Monty’s voice bursts suddenly through the earpiece. Clarke is used to the interruptions, but Lexa winces, raising a hand involuntarily to her ear. “We need you on top of your game!”

“It’s one glass of champagne, Monty,” Clarke mutters, taking care to look at Lexa so if anyone is watching, they’ll think it’s just a regular conversation. “Didn’t you say that we were supposed to be blending in? No one turns down _free champagne._ ”

Even though Monty can’t see her, she punctuates her point by raising the glass to her lips and taking a sip. The bubbles go a long way towards soothing her nerves — it’s hard to feel nervous about anything with a glass of champagne in your hand, Clarke decides. Lexa accepts a glass from another waiter and raises it slightly in a subtle toast.

“To the best birthday gift,” she says, clinking her glass against Clarke’s.

As they’re drinking to Lexa’s toast, Clarke notices Lincoln and Octavia enter the room from the corner of her eye. Octavia’s hand rests lightly on Lincoln’s forearm, and to an outsider, they look every inch the perfect couple. Octavia is all smiles and short bursts of laughter for everyone they pass. The contrast between her regular demeanour and her character for the evening is more than a little unnerving, but Clarke has to admit that she’s impressed.

“Octavia and Lincoln are here,” she murmurs to Lexa. In her ear, she hears Monty breathe a sigh of relief.

“Then you and Lexa can start moving, Clarke. Ditch the crowd and find a way to get upstairs.”

“Take your time,” cuts in another voice, higher and British. For a moment, Clarke thinks that they’ve been caught, their radio frequency compromised, and that they’re seconds away from being hauled out of Wallace’s mansion. Then she catches Octavia smiling at her from across the room and realises that it’s just her Danica Kingston accent.

Lexa drains the last of her champagne and sets it on the tray of a passing waiter. “Alright. Let’s do this,” she says, the familiar spark that always accompanies a new challenge lighting up her green eyes. “We shouldn’t leave together. Easier for two people to get caught somewhere they’re not supposed to be than one. Take some canapés. Meet me in the bedroom upstairs.”

She makes to move away, but they’re intercepted all of a sudden by a white-haired man in an evening suit and bowtie, who smiles as he approaches. Clarke’s heart skips a beat as he gets closer. It’s Dante Wallace himself, the man of the hour, and there’s absolutely no doubt that they’re his intended targets.

“Welcome,” he says, his voice quieter than Clarke would have expected. He seems louder in his television appearances, though she supposes he doesn’t have to work quite as hard to impress people when he’s surrounded by the lavish decor of his own home. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced. I do so hate these political events — so many new faces, not nearly enough time to devote to getting to know each and every one of them. I’m Dante Wallace.”

He’s holding out an expectant hand, and though Clarke falters, Lexa’s ready to step in. She takes the offered hand and gives it a firm shake, offering up a smile of her own for Wallace. “Olivia Maybury,” she says, strong, sure, with absolutely no hesitation. “This is my business partner, Imogen Ressler. We’ve heard wonderful things about what you’ve done for the city.”

Wallace inclines his head in a slight bow, first to Lexa, then to Clarke. “Ms. Maybury, Ms. Ressler. May I call you Olivia and Imogen? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You too,” Clarke says, finding her voice at last.

“May I ask what it is that you do?”

“We’ve just opened up a gallery in the downtown area,” Lexa tells him. “Showcasing new, up and coming artists. I think providing a space for amateurs to show their work is incredibly important, don’t you?”

The description of the gallery comes directly from its website, part of their research over the last few days, but Wallace doesn’t seem to notice that the answer is rehearsed. He chats with Lexa for a moment about the importance of giving everyone their chance and then turns his gaze on Clarke.

“Are either of you artists yourselves?”

“I do a little, here and there,” Clarke tells him. She nudges Lexa slightly in the side, inconspicious enough that it should look to Wallace as though she just tottered slightly on her heels. Wallace’s introduction has delayed things, but it can’t change their strategy — they still need to get out of this house as soon as possible, and Lexa needs to slip away quickly if they’re going to make that happen.

Thankfully, they know each other well enough for Lexa to know what Clarke’s nudge means. She excuses herself, telling Wallace that it was a pleasure to meet him, but that she needs to go and powder her nose. When she’s gone, Clarke feels unmoored for a moment, a tiny fish in a sea of sharks, but she finds it surprisingly easy to keep the conversation with Wallace going. He asks her questions about her art and the gallery, questions that show a genuine interest, so answering him isn’t a chore. All the same, it’s a relief when he announces his intent to move onto other guests.

“It’s been lovely chatting to you, Imogen,” Wallace tells her warmly. “I hope we’ll run into each other later in the evening. These fundraisers can be so terribly dreary.”

Then he’s gone, and Clarke takes a moment to collect her nerves before heading to find Lexa. In her ear, Octavia’s voice sounds off, still in the British accent.

“Nicely handled, Clarke. He didn’t suspect a thing.”

Clarke makes to move away, but there are others approaching her, holding out their hands and announcing their names. She’s trapped. There’s no way to slip out right now, at least not without drawing attention to herself. Pasting a fake smile on her face, she slips back into character and hopes that Lexa’s not waiting for her.

 

* * *

 

 

Getting away from Wallace is one of the easier parts of the evening. As Lexa threads her way through the crowd of partygoers, she finds that getting away from the rest of the guests is the real challenge. People stop her on her way out of the room, loudly introducing themselves and enquiring about her own name. She smiles and brushes all of them off, promising a speedy return, but the exchanges bother her. So much for being unseen and unnoticed. For someone who’s used to staying in the shadows, the unwavering spotlight is more than a little irritating.

But Lexa is the master of the quick brush-off, and within minutes she’s managed to leave the throng of partygoers behind. She heads into the entrance hall, the room where she first saw Clarke climbing through the window, with her face hidden beneath that stupid scarf. She allows herself a moment of nostalgia and then looks to the staircase. It’s grand, the kind of staircase that only exists in the houses of people who believe themselves to be more important than they are; made of white marble, half-covered with a deep gold runner, and more annoyingly, guarded by a tall, muscular man wearing a dark suit.

Lexa starts to speak, then remembers that she doesn’t have a companion to lessen the oddity of her speaking to herself, and reaches into her clutch bag for her phone instead. She holds it to her ear, pretending to make a call, and then addresses Jasper and Monty.

“There’s a guard on the stairs,” she says. “How am I supposed to get up there without being seen?”

Jasper curses. “We didn’t really plan for this,” he admits. “I guess we just assumed there’d be a velvet rope and a sign, or something like that. Is there any way one of you can distract him while the other slips upstairs?”

“Clarke’s still back in there,” Lexa says. Theoretically, their headsets are always on, but she’s long suspected that Jasper and Monty only listen half the time. This proves her theory and reinforces her belief that they’re useless. She makes a mental note to bring this up the next time she argues with Clarke about their effectiveness.

“I can distract him,” interrupts another voice, deeper than Jasper’s. Lincoln. “Is he the only security in the entryway, Lexa?”

Still holding the phone to her ear, Lexa surveys the rest of the entrance hall. Empty, save for her and the guard. Everyone else has already filtered into the area where the main party is being held. Lexa’s presence here might seem suspicious, if she didn’t simply look like someone looking for a quiet spot to take a phone call.

“Just him. Why, what are you planning?”

She can practically hear Lincoln’s smile on the other end of the line. “Just trust me.”

A couple of minutes later, Lincoln staggers into the entrance hall, stumbling left and right like he’s had too much to drink. He lets out a roar when he sees Lexa and stumbles towards her, holding out his arms for a hug. Just before he crashes into her, Lexa sees him wink. Then she’s enveloped in a crushing bear hug, tight enough that she’s able to whisper against his neck.

“What are you _doing_?”

“Getting escorted off the premises,” he whispers back, and then in a much louder, badly English accented voice, “ _Olivia Maybury_! I’m a huge fan of your work — topping, love, simply topping. You must come out to our estate—”

He doesn’t get any further before the security guard yanks him off of Lexa, glaring at him with narrowed eyes. “Do you know this man, miss?” he asks, holding Lincoln by the collar of his suit jacket.

Lexa makes her eyes as wide and terrified as possible and shakes her head, clutching at her throat like an old Southern lady clutching at her pearls. “I’ve never seen him before in my life,” she says, allowing her voice to tremble, just a little, for added effect.

“I think you should leave the lady alone, then, sir,” the guard advises Lincoln. He releases him and starts to head back to the staircase. Lexa has a moment of panic — all of this, and he’s letting Lincoln go with a warning. But Lincoln senses it too, and throws his arms around Lexa again.

“That dress is _smashing_ , love—”

“Alright,” the guard says resignedly, returning to the pair and gripping Lincoln’s collar again with a resigned sigh. “I think the evening is over for you, buddy. Let’s go get you a taxi, shall we?” He nods slightly at Lexa. “So sorry about this, miss. Some of the guests at these events just let the champagne go to their head. Sad, really.”

Lexa nods, holding her breath, hardly daring to breathe in case it makes the guard reconsider. But then he’s steering Lincoln towards the door, and the staircase is free and clear. Lexa kicks her heels off and races for it, knowing that speed is of the essence. Within seconds, she’s at the top of the staircase, and only slightly out of breath for it.

“I made it upstairs,” she says to no one in particular, assuming that at least one of Clarke, Octavia, Jasper and Monty will be listening in. “I’m heading for Wallace’s bedroom. Third door on the right, beside the potted fern, right?”

“That’s it,” Monty replies, while Jasper lets out a whoop of excitement in the background.

She finds the bedroom easily. It’s decorated in a less lavish style than the rest of the house; the walls are painted a clean, bright blue, the furniture made from pale wood, the walls decorated with soft, muted prints and a single photograph of a much younger Wallace, with a woman who Lexa presumes is his wife. She’s holding a baby with a thick tuft of dark hair. Cage Wallace, their client. Lexa studies the photograph for a moment and then moves to the bed. It’s flanked by two matching nightstands, made of the same pale wood as the rest of the furniture, and topped with transparent glass lamps.

“Which drawer, guys?”

“Left nightstand, top drawer. According to Cage, it should be in a silver case, right on top of everything else.”

Lexa slides open the drawer, and sure enough, sitting atop a pile of books and papers is a slim silver case. She lifts it and pops it open, revealing a miniscule, nondescript black memory card. Nothing outwardly special or interesting about it, but as she lifts it and holds it to the light, she takes a moment to consider what could be on there. Something damaging enough that owning this card will give Cage Wallace control over his father’s entire political career? Or something petty and familial? Lexa suspects the former, but it’s not her place to judge her client. He’s paying them a lot of money to finish a job, and that’s what she plans to do.

She tucks the card into her clutch bag, sliding the silver case back into its spot in the drawer. Leaving it there might buy them some time; if Wallace doesn’t check the card every night, it could be weeks or months before he even notices that it’s missing. And if that’s the case, then once he does, he’s unlikely to connect its disappearance with his political fundraiser, much less the two young art gallery owners he met that night.

She’s just snapped her bag shut when she hears footsteps in the corridor outside. She freezes, left hand tightening on her clutch, right hand reaching down to take her heels off again. Running in bare feet is hardly ideal, but running in heels is even worse. She steps behind the doorframe, realising belatedly as the door begins to open that she should have grabbed a weapon. All she has is her shoes and her bag, neither of them heavy enough to subdue anyone. Still, the point of her heels might make someone falter for just a moment, so she raises them in the air and waits.

Luckily, she never has to find out if heels make a decent weapon, because it’s Clarke who leans around the doorway, blonde curls cascading around her face, a slight flush raised on her cheeks. Lexa’s never been happier to see her.

 

* * *

 

 

“Clarke!”

Clarke closes the door behind her and just has time to open her arms before Lexa falls into them, body slumping against her with relief. Clarke catches her, hands coming to rest on the small of Lexa’s back, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo.

“Hey, are you okay?” she says, worried. “Did something go wrong?”

“I _thought_ something had when you started to open that door,” Lexa says, her voice muffled against Clarke’s shoulder. “I thought the whole point of these stupid headsets was so you could keep in constant contact and let me know when you were coming. Jesus, Clarke, you gave me a heart attack.”

Clarke reaches up to her ear, flicks on the button to turn her headset back on. “Sorry. I turned it off when Lincoln left to help you out — a couple of Wallace’s aides were talking to me, your voices were distracting. I didn’t want them to notice that anything was up.”

Lexa jolts up, looks at Clarke incredulously. “There’s an _off switch_?”

There’s a pause and then the two of them are laughing, slumping against each other. When the moment of relief passes, Clarke straightens up, helps Lexa to her feet. “Did you find the card?”

Lexa reaches into her clutch and pulls out a tiny card, waving it in the air for Clarke to see. “Did you ever doubt me?” she says, grinning. Then laughter echoes up from downstairs and the smile slides from her face. “Okay. That’s it. Let’s get out of here. I feel like our luck has to run out at some point and I’d like to be far, far away from here when that happens.”

Hand in hand, they slip out of Wallace’s bedroom and down the hallway. When they reach the top of the staircase, Lexa swears and pulls Clarke backwards. Clarke only gets a glimpse of what’s bothering her, but it’s enough. The security guard that Lincoln distracted before is standing at the bottom of the staircase, returned to his post. There’s no way for them to head back downstairs without being noticed.

“Octavia,” Clarke murmurs, and Octavia’s voice in her headset sparks to life. “Are you still downstairs, or did you leave with Lincoln?”

“I’m here. Can’t slip away just yet, though. Wallace is giving a toast and they’ve closed all the doors — I don’t want to draw any extra attention.”

“Lincoln?” Clarke tries. He takes longer to respond, but he’s there.

“I’ve been escorted from the premises,” he says drily. “But I might be able to help out. What do you need?”

“The security guard is back at the stairs. Can you set off an alarm or something? Do something that will make him go investigate?”

“I’m on it. Sit tight.”

“We don’t exactly have a choice,” Lexa mutters. Clarke looks at her, grinning.

“Do you like your birthday present?”

Lexa rolls her eyes, but she’s not able to suppress her own grin in return. “Shut up.”

She punctuates the order with a kiss, leaning in and pressing Clarke back against the wall, hard. The adrenaline coursing through Clarke’s veins makes her kiss back harder as she brings one hand up to thread her fingers through Lexa’s hair, the other anchoring Lexa’s body against hers. This is the last place that they should be losing control, but neither of them can help themselves. It’s the adrenaline, Clarke knows. The knowledge that at any moment, they could be caught makes everything more exciting.

They’re both breathing heavily and Lexa’s fingers are inching beneath the collar of Clarke’s dress when a faint beeping noise makes her pause and pull back. Her lipstick is smeared, her cheeks flushed and red. Her hair is dishevelled from Clarke’s hands, her eyes bright and heavy-lidded with want.

“That’s Lincoln. We need to move.”

In one quick motion, she’s kicked off her heels and picked them up with one hand, the other slipping into Clarke’s and tugging her forward. The security guard has left the bottom of the staircase to stand by the front door. He’s speaking into a walkie-talkie, enquiring about whatever it was that tripped an alarm at the south wall. It’s not ideal, but it’s the best distraction that they’re likely to get. Following Lexa’s lead, Clarke sheds her high heels and then the two of them race down the marble staircase as silently as possible. They manage to make it to the door leading back to the rest of the partygoers before the guard notices them and lets out a shout.

Tightening her grip on Lexa’s hand, Clarke leans in quick to whisper to her. “Follow my lead.”

Then she kisses Lexa again, pressing her back against the door. The guard is jogging towards them now, demanding to know where they’ve been. Clarke tugs at Lexa’s dress so that one spaghetti strap falls down her arm and then turns, pushing a hand back through her hair to mess up the style. She smiles sheepishly at the guard, ducking her head like she’s embarrassed.

“Sorry,” she says brightly. “Newlyweds. We’re still in that stage where we can’t keep our hands off each other, you know? We were just looking for somewhere a bit more private.”

The guard’s gaze roves over them suspiciously, taking in their mussed up hair, Lexa’s disarranged dress, the shoes dangling from each of their hands. He coughs, clearly uncomfortable.

“I think you’d better get back to the party,” he says gruffly. “Mr Wallace doesn’t like guests just roaming around the house.”

“Of course,” Clarke says. “So sorry. Come on, Olivia.”

She starts to pull Lexa inside the room, then pauses, like she’s considering something. She hopes Lexa understands her signal.

“Actually,” Lexa says, meeting Clarke’s eyes. “Maybe we should just head home.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Clarke agrees, squeezing her hand. She throws in another bright smile for the security guard’s benefit. “Thanks so much for the lovely evening! Have a good night!”

Then they stride out of Wallace’s house, hand in hand, still barefoot and with the security guard gaping after them. They get their car back from the valet and drive a little ways down the road to wait for Octavia to make her exit. Then, as planned, they coordinate with the others over the headsets and head back to Clarke’s apartment.

Clarke is grinning the whole way. They did it.

 

* * *

 

 

They spend the rest of the evening in Clarke’s apartment, still dressed up in their evening wear while they eat greasy slices of pizza straight from the box. Octavia insists on speaking with her Danica Kingston accent, and no one seems to mind too much. Lincoln certainly doesn’t. He spends the night with his arm draped around Octavia’s shoulders, and from one quick glance, Lexa is able to tell that this is going to become a regular occurrence.

Jasper and Monty are thrilled that they’ve managed to pull this off. Cage has been notified that they’ve got the memory card, and pick-up arranged for two days from now. Jasper and Monty will take care of that part; Lexa’s job is over, and she’s happy about that.

The others finally leave at around two in the morning, leaving Clarke and Lexa alone in the apartment. Clarke shuts the door behind them and then turns around, grinning widely at Lexa. Lexa knows that smile. It’s the one that Clarke wears when she knows that she’s right about something.

“You had fun,” Clarke says “Admit it.”

Lexa thinks about it. She’s not sure that she would call what happened at Wallace’s house “fun,” but it was definitely exciting. A change from what’s become the norm. She will admit that she enjoyed dressing up and playing a character, but she’s not sure that she wants to make it a habit. Exciting though it was, it was also terrifying, and she’s still nervous that someone might connect them to the theft. Would she do it again? Maybe. But she doesn’t want to boost Clarke’s ego too much, not just yet.

“I guess,” she says at last, stalling for time. Pretending that she didn’t enjoy the evening as much as she did. “But, you know, next year, you could just get me jewellery.”

Clarke pouts, coming forward to wrap her arms around Lexa’s neck. She backs her towards the couch until Lexa falls down onto the cushions and then climbs on top of her, bracketing Lexa’s thighs with her own. She leans down agonisingly slowly, stopping just before their lips touch. Lexa makes a noise of annoyance, fingers clasped on Clarke’s hips, and tries to pull her down.

“Admit you liked it,” Clarke says, breath ghosting across Lexa’s lips. She grins even wider, sitting back on Lexa’s thighs. “Come on, I’m the best at birthday presents. Just admit it!”

“Okay, fine,” Lexa says with a laugh. “I liked it. It was great. Now will you just get over here, already?”

Clarke leans down and graces her with a kiss, soft and sweet. Lexa tightens her grip on Clarke’s hips, holding her there, and yes, Lexa has to admit it.

Clarke Griffin is _good_ at birthday presents.


End file.
